It takes an hour in the mornings. No matter what I tell myself, it takes an hour. That means if I wake up or — more to the point — get up 30 minutes late on a Saturday, I will be 30 minutes late getting out for my run. There is no getting up 30 minutes late and being ready in 30 minutes. Part of me rebels at the very idea that I could be late for anything at 6:00 on a Saturday morning. So I drag my feet, and it takes an hour.
Once I got going, of course, everything was fine. My new shoes are like the old shoes were when they were new, which is to say they felt like they should feel but the thrill of new shoes is gone. Sort of like … well, never mind. So anyway, I was out the door and down the road for a minute or two before I realized that I had forgotten to start my watch. No biggie. The point of the watch is to keep me honest, not to torture me with times to meet. Just so long as I am not slacking.
I followed my usual long run route as the sun began to rise, an orange disk in a silver sky. It seemed only able to define it’s own presence. The surrounding sky and the river below held the sense of night, only illuminated. I ran through Groovemont and out towards the quarry making spectacular time until the delayed start got figured in. At the Tabernacle, where it seems my Great Uncle once preached, I turned right instead of going straight. Descending through a graveyard, I dipped and then rose to pass the retirement home on one side and the rehab on the other.
The rehabituates appeared to want my attention, to which they are welcome if they truly want to stay sober. I suspect they want to yell at a runner because what else to they have to do to liven up the morning. I did not stop. Instead, I made it to another bone yard, this one dedicated to our fallen vets. It’s a nice spot, and a good turn around. Again past the retirees and parolees, most of whom had gone inside, and up through the church yard to the Tabernacle.
As I headed home, Ra’s power began to effect the air but only in pockets. I would run through spots as wet and warm as a lung only to emerge into the nocturnal cool again. This battle will continue for weeks, but the cool will prevail. I believe the worst of the heat to be over, and I am grateful not to have sat this summer out. Most years, I reach this stage having squandered the summer in lackadaisical efforts at training. I have reached this fall with a good number of miles in the bank. Today’s run was a draft on that account that will not bounce.